


The Beast In The Dugout

by apostrophee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Baseball, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Molestation, Mysterious Skin inspired, Rape, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Coercion, non con incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostrophee/pseuds/apostrophee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek knows that look in his uncle’s eyes.  It’s the same needy look uncle Peter used to give Derek before he got too big to play with.  Now Uncle Peter is looking at the new kid whose uniform doesn’t quite sit right on his body. All Stiles wanted to do was play baseball, but there is something really weird about Coach Pete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

_Present_

When Stiles first sees him it’s like the world stops.  Just for a moment, everything stills, becomes silent and all he can hear is the beating of his heart, the thump-thump-thump underneath his chest cage, rattling the bones.  He can’t breathe and judging from the look on Derek’s face he too is suffocating.    


They stand there for a moment, ten feet apart feeling like ten miles, like maybe they’re actually ten different worlds away from each other.  Like the flip of a switch the memories come rushing in.  Everything that Stiles has spent the last eight years of his life trying to forget comes pouring in like a tidal wave.  Before he knows it, all of the lights in the sky on this beautiful October afternoon begin to dim.  He’s falling to the ground as if he is weightless.  The last thing that he thinks before everything turns black is that his dad is going to kill him if he’s late for dinner again.

_* * *_

 

_Past_

All Stiles wanted to do was spend his summer playing video games, but his dad told him he had to get out of the house. He said sitting in front of the television everyday wasn’t healthy.  Stiles is eight, he doesn’t entirely understand what the word _healthy_ means, but he knows his mom seems really excited looking at all the different kinds of sneakers.  He loves baseball, this _should_ be exciting.

“Why are there spikes?” he asks picking up a shoe poking at the rubber points.

“They’re called cleats,” his mother says. “ _These_ , these bad boys are going to help you steal home.”  She smiles at him and when he doesn’t smile back she rubs her hand down the front of her dress, twisting the fabric between her thin fingers. Stiles knows from experience that when his mother does that, the whole wiping her hands on her clothes thing, it means she’s about to say something serious.  


“Do you really want to play? I know you love watching the games with your dad, but do you actually want to play?”  


Stiles bites at his thumbnail looking at the blue and white sneaker in front of him. “I want to pitch like Tom Seaver,” he says.  “It’s just. What if I suck?”  


Mrs. Stilinski smiles, her brown eyes warm with love and she crouches down until she’s eye level with her son.   


“You, baby boy, are amazing,” she says running her hand through his messy mop of brown hair.  “Why are you so nervous? You play baseball all the time, only now you’ll be a part of a real team instead of just playing with your buddies in the backyard.”  


“Scott won’t be there.” Stiles says.  His best friend is his whole life.  He tries not to sound like a little kid because he’s not a little kid.  He’s almost nine, but he and Scott do everything together and they have ever since first grade.  


“I know baby boy, but your friend Jackson will be there and so will Danny.  Little league will be fun!”  


“I hate Jackson and all Danny does is play with him and nobody else.  I wish Scott wasn’t in Arizona.”  


“It’s only for a few weeks.  He’ll be back soon and then both of you will rule the team.”   


Stiles’ ears perk up.  There’s no fighting the grin that slides across his face. “Yeah?”  


“Yeah baby boy.  You wait and see; this will be the best summer of your life.”

_* * *_

 

_Present_

It’s Scott’s voice that he hears first, that California cool, slightly lazy tone anxiously calling out his name. Everything is still dark, but Stiles doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that there’s a crowd around him.  He can feel the heat radiating off of their bodies.  He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Derek is there too, Derek _fucking_ Hale.  Stiles can smell him, that earthy rich scent that’s intrinsically always has just been Derek. He remembers that smell from when he was a kid.  It’s a little different now, stronger, but still _there_.  


“I’m okay,” Stiles groans as he opens his eyes.  He’s mortified to see all of the people standing around him, easily half of the town or at least the half that is spending their Saturday shopping downtown.   He tries to sit up, but then there are hands on his chest, Derek’s hands, and they are holding him down.  


“You shouldn’t move,” he says.  Derek’s voice is deep, much deeper than Stiles’ remembers, but that’s what happens when you grow up.  Derek looks almost exactly the same as he did when he was twelve only instead of being a little chubby, pimply pre-teen, he’s all long and lean now.  Stiles doesn’t have to touch him to know that Derek’s body now carries this strength with it that it didn’t have before. 

His hair is different too, longer at the top and kind of tapered on the sides, not that bowl cut he used to wear.  He’s not wearing the glasses either, those ugly thick red things with the tape down the middle.  Derek must have broken those frames at least three times that summer and finally his mother got fed up with replacing them and handed him a roll of masking tape, told him to make due until school started back up.

Mrs. Hale was always so nice to Stiles, but she scared the shit out of him.  It was the height, Stiles thinks. She was almost six feet tall and just like Derek had these bright green eyes that would just burn right into you.  When she smiled there was always something strained about it, like it pained her to do so.  She used to wear her long dark hair in this high, high ponytail that would pull all of her strong features back, the broad nose, the too-thin lips and the high cheek bones all stretched almost inhumanely.  She wasn’t a beauty, but there was something interesting about her anyway and she made the best cookies.

She’s dead now, burned up in the Hale house fire eight summers ago that killed three generations of Hales, everyone except for Derek, his older sister and…Coach Pete.  


Stiles can feel it, that tightness in his chest, the sensation of the world closing in again. Flashes of light flood and blurs his vision. He starts to hyperventilate and god damn it why is Derek Hale back in town and making Stiles think things and remember that summer, dredging up all of this bullshit?    


“Somebody call an ambulance!” Scott yells and he’s right there beside Derek, knees digging into the pavement in front of Miss Lee’s Knick-Knack store.    


“No!” Stiles says between gasps. “I’m…fine…I….just gotta…catch…my…breath...”  Stiles looks up at Derek.  Derek presses his hands down firmer on Stiles’ chest silently telling him not to move.    


Stiles’ heart beats faster and faster in his chest.  He knows Derek can feel the vibrations and it’s as if Stiles has suddenly become too hot to touch because Derek withdraws his hands in haste.  


“Just a panic attack,” he says. “I don’t think you need to call anyone.”    


And then Derek is gone, Derek _fucking_ Hale disappears into the crowd.

_* * *_

 

_Past_

Everyone is so good at this game.  Stiles wanted to be a pitcher, but stupid Jackson has been on the team longer and he’s already the pitcher.  Stupid Danny is the catcher and that was the only other position Stiles wanted to play so now he sits and he waits for something to happen.  


Most of the guys on the team or nice enough though.  He knows them all.  That’s what happens when you grow up in a small town; you tend to know everybody and everybody tends to know you too.  Making friends with them isn’t really easy.  Stiles likes to keep to himself.  He’s not a quiet kid, he’s always moving around, always fidgeting with his clothes or his hat.  He talks a lot too.  It’s like his body is always ready to move; even if he’s tired it’s like his body has its own mind.  Some of the kids make fun of him.  


Last month his mother took him to a doctor and now he has to take these pills twice a day that make his stomach hurt.  Scott’s mom had suggested it, said that maybe the reason Stiles was doing so badly in school was because he couldn’t sit still long enough to concentrate.  Stiles doesn’t think he’s stupid, actually he knows that he’s not so these twice-a-day pills don’t make him feel much different.  He knows most of the answers to all of the questions his teacher’s ask; it’s just that it’s hard for him to answer them out loud, in front of people.  He hates talking in front of people; he feels like they laugh at him.    


Sometimes they do.  It’s because he talks too fast or whispers when he should be speaking louder, but then they laugh at him when he does talk louder.  Stiles can’t win.  Scott never laughs at him though.  He’s his best friend and Stiles really wishes he wasn’t spending the first half of the summer in Arizona with his grandmother.  Stiles hopes she smells like old people.  


“Okay, listen up!” Coach Pete says. “You guys are doing phenomenal.   Hartford, remember to keep your chin up and keep your eyes on the ball.  When Whitmore is throwing it at you, if you want to hit it, you gotta watch the ball as it comes to you.”  


Stiles tunes out the rest of what Coach Pete is saying.   There’s something about Coach Pete that Stiles doesn’t really like.  He doesn’t hate him or anything, not like how he hates Jackson and the way he’s always pulling Lydia’s pigtails, but there’s something about Coach Pete that makes Stiles feel all weird inside, like his skin doesn’t quite sit right on his body.  Or something.  


And Coach Pete is always talking to him, always rubbing his shoulders and sitting real close to him when Stiles is in the dugout.  Something isn’t right about Coach, but Stiles is eight-almost-nine so maybe he doesn’t really know anything.  


The Beacon Hill Beavers haven’t won a game in three seasons.  It seems like Stiles spends most of their practice games just sitting in the dugout, watching all of the other kids play.  It’s been five days of baseball camp and Stiles has only been up to bat twice.  The first time he managed to make it to first before stupid Danny, who decided that he was better at being a shortstop, tagged him out.  The second time he completely missed the ball and the whole team laughed at him.  They’re stupid anyway.

Coach Pete is sitting next to Stiles again.  The team is running drills, going over rotations.  Stiles wanted to be a part of that, run, catch and jump with the other kids, but Coach keeps talking to him, telling him things that Stiles doesn’t really understand.  


“I see greatness in you,” he says. “You’re going to be something great.  We just have to work on you a little bit.” Coach puts his hand on Stiles knee and just keeps it there.   


Stiles can feel Coach’s hand shake, it’s a slight tremor, but Stiles can feel it all the same.  He looks up at Coach’s face, sees the way his blue eyes look almost like they’re on fire. His mouth is askew, lips parted as if he’s thirsty and his breathing is short.  There are beads of sweat that begin to pool at his brow and something in Stiles is telling him to run way, _screaming_ for him to leave the dugout and to tell someone, but what is there to tell?  Coach isn’t doing anything wrong.  He’s just touching Stiles’ leg, rubbing his hand up and down his thigh, squeezing and smiling at him with his big white teeth. _All the better to eat you with_ , Stiles thinks.  


“Peter!” a voice yells from above causing Coach to flinch. He removes his hand, but keeps his eyes on Stiles.  


“When I’m coaching Derek, you call me _Coach_ Pete,” he says voice low and steady. “We’ve had this conversation before.”   


“I don’t play for you anymore Uncle Peter,” the voice says and Stiles strains his neck trying to catch a glimpse of the boy who’s speaking.  


Coach Pete laughs, “Is that so?” He stands and turns toward the voice and damn it why can’t Stiles see him?  It’s like there’s a voice, but no person behind it.  


“Whatever,” the boy says and now Stiles can see him because he’s hopping down into the dugout.  He’s a little odd looking, this Derek person.  His body is skinny, his arms long and bony underneath the white t-shirt.   He’s all knobby-knees with feet that are too big and a face that’s too chubby for his body.  His dark hair is all over the place and he’s tanned, like really tanned, but he still manages to look kind of pale.  He’s wearing glasses that are too big for his face and his eyes are bright, bright green. And really pretty Stiles thinks.  


He looks at Stiles and Stiles feels all funny in his stomach.  Like how he feels when Lydia smiles at him, which only happened once or that time she chose him to play on her kickball team.  It’s a strange thrill and Stiles doesn’t understand these feelings because they are new, but Derek is looking at him with an almost horrified panic stare.   


Coach sits back down, too close to him, and puts his hand back on Stiles’ leg, squeezing down hard.  


“Stiles this is my nephew Derek.  Derek, meet my new star player, Stiles.”  


Stiles waves at him, but Derek pointedly ignores him, his eyes focused back on Coach Pete.

“Mom needs you.  Says it’s important,” he says.  His eyes flutter down to where Coach’s hand is gripping Stiles’ leg and Stiles feels like Derek knows something that he doesn’t.  He feels exposed, like Derek is somehow looking inside of him.  


“If your mother needs me so badly, why didn’t she call me on my cell?”  


Derek reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cell phone, throwing it into Peter’s lap.  


“You left it on the counter,” he grunts. “It’s important.  Says it has to do with the **family**.”  


Stiles can feel Coach Pete tense up before nodding.  He pats Stiles’ leg and says, “We’ll finish this later.  I’m going to have a nice chat with your folks about how we can help you progress.”  


And with one final squeeze to his leg Coach Pete is climbing out of the dugout rounding up the rest of the team to end practice early.  


“Hey, kid!” Derek hisses, lurching toward him.  Stiles practically jumps out of his skin he’s so frightened. “Go home and don’t come back here!”  


Stiles is confused. “Wh..What?” he says.  


Derek’s hands are on his shoulders now.  He’s so much taller than Stiles, almost a whole foot and his body is so much bigger.  Stiles feels so small, but that twist in his stomach makes him want to do something stupid like hug Derek or give him his favorite video game.  


That same horrified panic look etches its way back on Derek’s face, like he can read Stiles’ mind and he takes a step back, thick eyebrows raised in alarm.  


“Don’t come here again!  Stay away, it’s for your own good! If I see you here again, I’ll kick your ass!”  


And then Derek Hale is gone.  And Stiles can still smell him.

_* * *_

 

_Present_

  
Stiles mother died when he was ten.  She went to pick up dinner and she never made it back home.  They say the driver of the truck wasn’t drunk and he was only sending out a text message to his wife. _B Hm Sn_ it said and just like that Stiles didn’t have a mother anymore.   


He doesn’t like visiting her grave. His father went all out, bought this massive headstone with a granite Angel perched above it like it was guarding his mother’s spirit, keeping her safe.  It terrifies the shit out of Stiles, always has and probably always will.    


When he was little, and she had just died, Stiles used to come here every day after school.  He’d sit there for hours until his father would come looking for him, frantic out of his mind because the babysitter said he had disappeared from his room.  He would talk to her, tell her about his day and how the doctors were giving him all kinds of medicine to help him deal with his concentration and the new feelings they were calling panic attacks. 

The first year after the accident the anxiety almost killed him.  His father couldn’t talk, all he did was cry and scream and break things and Mrs. McCall was there at his house, crying her eyes out too because Ginger was her friend.  Ginger was everyone’s friend.

Stiles didn’t understand any of it.  He tried to comfort his dad, but all his dad did was cry and hold on to him so tight, like he was afraid Stiles would fly away or something.  And then Stiles’ world turned off and he couldn’t breathe.  


“Hey mom,” he says sitting cross-legged. “It’s been a while.  I’m sorry it’s just…you know I hate coming here right?  I hate it and I feel stupid talking to a rock, but I feel like I need to, ya know?  Like I need to tell you everything.  I know you probably know what happened, I’m sure you do.  I mean you’re in Heaven right?  I’m sure being an Angel somehow makes you psychic or gives you some other awesome superpower shit – _shit_ , sorry for saying shit! But I want to tell you what happened and it’s not your fault.  I don’t blame you or dad I want you to know that.  I mean I did, but I don’t, I never really meant it even when I did.  I was just so angry. God, this isn’t coming out right.”  


“Hey,” a voice says and Stiles jumps.   


“Hi Derek,” he says.  He doesn’t turn around.  Derek makes no move to sit beside him and Stiles doesn’t know why he’s irritated about that.  


“I thought you said you’d never come back.” Stiles’ tone is barely above a whisper and he hates that part of him that makes him feel like that nervous eight-year old kid that’s too afraid to hear his own voice.  He’s older now and a little more sure of himself.

“I was twelve.  I didn’t know shit.”  


“Yeah,” Stiles laughs cruelly. “You knew enough though, huh Derek?”  


“I didn’t…I didn’t want those things to happen,” Derek says and now he’s in Stiles’ space, crowding hands on his shoulders, jaw angular, clenched.  


“Don’t fucking touch me!” Stiles pushes him away. Derek recoils.  


“Stiles, I just want to…you need to know something.”  


“Save it Derek, I don’t need to know shit.  What the fuck are you doing here anywhere?  Following me, huh? I guess shit doesn’t change!”  


Derek grits his teeth. “You’re not the only one with a loved one buried here,” he grunts.

  
The warmth of embarrassment and shame burn his cheeks.  Stiles shouldn’t be angry, not with Derek.  It really wasn’t his fault and Stiles _shouldn’t_ blame him.  Even if Derek was bigger, he was a kid too.  Just a stupid kid with a sick shit for an uncle.    


“Look, I don’t mean to be a dick,” Stiles says. “It’s just I don’t think you should be here.  I don’t _want_ you here. Whatever apology you want to give I accept it, okay, just leave me the fuck alone. I don’t want all of this shit coming up again.”   


He tries to walk away, but Derek is there, in his face, crowding his space again and **damn it** this guy just won’t get it.  


“You are going to listen to me,” he growls, honest to god growls and Stiles is all ears. “Peter is awake.”  


And for the second time that day Stiles’ world becomes black.

_* * *_

 

_Past_

The Hale mansion is huge.  It’s like six of Stiles’ house all put into one big and more awesome house.  They have three kitchens and eight bathrooms.  _Eight bathrooms and a swimming pool_.  Stiles holds onto his backpack as if it’s his lifeline as Coach Pete leads him from room to room.  There’s twenty of them.    


The Hale clan is huge and they instantly take to Stiles. There’s the twins Abigail and Hannah who are home for the summer.  There’s Mrs. Hale and Mr. Hale, a tall pair with reserved smiles who keep offering cookies.  There’s Uncle Carl who looks too young to be an uncle.  He’s barely older than Derek who is glaring at Stiles from the couch, eyebrows drawn close, usually bright green eyes blazing almost electric blue.    


Stiles wants to run to him, tell him that he tried to quit the team, but that he couldn’t because his mother wouldn’t let him.  He wants to tell Derek that it was Coach Pete’s idea for him to spend the weekend there while his parents went away, that Coach said they could practice, make Stiles into a stronger player so stupid Jackson would stop making fun of him.    


But Stiles doesn’t say anything.  He doesn’t get a chance to because Coach Pete is ushering him out of the living room, growling something too low for Stiles to hear.  


“This is where you’re going to sleep,” he says.  


“What? Wow!” Stiles exclaims. “This bed is so big!” Stiles drops his bag and runs to jump on the massive king-sized bed.  This room is huge, way bigger than Stiles’ room at home.  


“Right through those doors is my room so if you get scared or you need something, you just walk right through the bathroom and there’s my room.”  


“This is so cool!” Stiles exclaims.  He’s jumping up and down on the bed, dust from his sneakers getting all over the red and gold duvet cover.  If he was doing this at home his mother would have swatted his behind, chastising him for getting the bed dirty, but Coach Pete just laughs and hops on the bed with him.    


It’s a little weird at first; this grown man jumping on the bed with him, but soon there’s nothing but giggles and Stiles is collapsing face down on the bed, spreading his arms and legs out as far as they can go.  He feels like he’s swimming without any water.  


Then there’s Coach’s hand on his back, not just on his back, but up his shirt touching his skin.  His hand is so hot that it burns Stiles is too afraid to move.  He closes his eyes and buries his face in the pillows trying not to make a sound, but he wants to cry out. Coach rubs his fingers down the bones in his back and the heat is almost unbearable.  


“You’re so small,” he says, breathlessly, pressing fingers into the knobs of Stiles’ spine. “Why are you shaking?”  


“I…I…I’m not,” Stiles stutters.  He hasn’t stuttered in months.  “Why are you touching me?”

Something feels so wrong.  It’s like Stiles can smell a change in the air.  There’s this look in Coach’s eyes, like he’s hungry and just like Derek’s they rage blue.  Stiles is mesmerized.  There are blue lights blazing from where there should be eyes and he’s moving closer to get a better look.  This doesn’t seem real.  


Coach’s hands press down on his back and with ease he flips Stiles so he’s face up.  His hand moves to Stiles’ belly and he squirms, tries to get away.  


“Stay still,” Coach commands.   


Stiles freezes when he feels Coach’s lips against his neck.  He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but then there’s Derek and he’s growling at coach and pushing him off with strength that Stiles wouldn’t think Derek possessed.    


Coach laughs, “Hello nephew. Come, join us.”    


Stiles sits up, pulling his knees to his chest.  What’s going on?   He doesn’t understand any of this.  He knows something in the air doesn’t smell good, like wires are burning but he can also smell Derek and Derek smells wonderful.  He smells like something clean and safe and kind of like fresh cut flowers.  


“No, leave him alone!”  


Coach Pete looks confused. He sits up, hands resting in his lap. “Stiles,” he says.  “Am I bothering you?”  


Stiles doesn’t know what to say so he shakes his head with a resolute ‘no’.  


“See, he’s fine.  Why don’t you come up here with us.” Coach Pete pats the bed.  


“No,” Derek says arms crossed against his chest.  He’s not wearing his glasses and he’s barefoot.  Stiles not sure why he decides to focus on this; but he becomes fixated with the fact that Derek is barefoot.    


“Yes, you will come.”  


“No!  I’ll tell, I swear I will!”  


Coach laughs, “You know what will happen if you do that.  Now come here.”  


Derek bows his head and starts whispering to himself.  He’s counting Stiles realizes.   


Coach laughs again, the sound making Stiles feel like he should run.  He _should_ run, but he’s too afraid to move.   


Derek climbs on the bed, but stays at the foot, back turned to them.  He has his head in his hands, and he’s counting. _Why is he counting_?  


“Take off your shirt.  Show our star player how what happens to little boys who can’t keep their mouths shut.”  


Derek is counting: one, two, three, four, five….  


He takes his shirt off and Stiles gasps.  His chest hurts.  There are burns all over Derek’s back.  The skin is inflamed, scabbed and peeling, raw and red.  It looks painful and from the way Derek’s sitting it must be.  


“You see Stiles, Derek thought that he could tell my secrets.  He knows better now, isn’t that right Derek?”  
  
  
Derek keeps counting, but nods his head in agreement.

“Now, Stiles you’re going to keep my secret, right?  Now let’s get these shoes off.  You’re getting the bed all messy,” Coach Pete says as he pulls Stiles’ sneakers off.  Soon after comes Stiles’ pants and the only people whose ever seen him in his underwear like this are his parents.  He wants to keep his shirt on because it’s long, but Coach makes him take it off.  He tells Derek to lock the door and Stiles knows that something very bad is about to happen.  


“Have you ever been kissed before Stiles? On the mouth.”  


“Wh..What?” Stiles says, knees pulled closer to his body, arms wrapped around them tight. He’ll be his own anchor.  


“Kissed,” Coach says.  “Derek here…Derek here is really good at that, aren’t you?”  


Derek flinches, honest to god cringes.  He’s shaking his head _no_ , fear and humiliation in his eyes.  He stops counting and now he’s pleading.  


“Please, no.  I don’t want to,” he says. “You said no more! You said I was too big! Please don’t!”  


“Too big for me,” Coach says, pauses and then, “Not him.  Stop the babbling and come here.” Derek must be moving too slow because Coach is out of the bed and yanking Derek pushing him up beside Stiles.  


“Just close your eyes,” Derek whispers to Stiles, placing his hand delicately on Stiles’ forearm. “I’m sorry….I’m _so_ sorry.”  


And then Derek’s lips are crushing against Stiles.

 


	2. The Middle Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek knows that look in his uncle’s eyes. It’s the same needy look uncle Peter used to give Derek before he got too big to play with. Now Uncle Peter is looking at the new kid whose uniform doesn’t quite sit right on his body. All Stiles wanted to do was play baseball, but there is something really weird about Coach Pete.

 

 

 

_Present_

When Stiles begins to wake, it’s not in his bed.  He’s on a couch that feels too small to be the one in his living room and it’s wet.  The room he’s in smells like mold and burnt wood.  There’s a cold dampness on his forehead and he stirs fully awake.  He can feel fingers brushing through his closely cropped dark hair, fingernails gently scratching at his scalp and he moves into the touch, craving it as if it’s warm milk on a cold, sleepless night.

 

“What the hell?” he yawns.  The fingers stop their momentum, move away and when Stiles opens his eyes he’s alone.  He has an acute awareness of his surroundings.  He’s in the scorched remains of what used to be the Hale Mansion. The stench of the burnt-out shell of house is thick, reminds him of campfires and roasting marshmallows the two weeks he spent as a boy scout, before he got bored and quit.

 

“Derek!” he yells. “Where are you?”

 

“Don’t be mad,” Derek says quietly.  Stiles can’t see him, but he knows that Derek’s close.  He can feel him.

 

“What am I doing here?”

 

“You passed out again.  I didn’t want to leave you there.”

 

Stiles pauses for a moment before he begins to freak the fuck out. “So you thought taking me to a condemned building was a better alternative?” he yells.

 

He gets to his feet, albeit slowly, but he stands and after  a moment he’s steady.  There’s no roof above him so he can see the way the sky is fading, orange slipping into a soft blue. October afternoons are always too short.  It’s barely ten minutes after five, but it’ll be completely dark soon.  Stiles doesn’t mind the dark, but he knows that the Hale mansion is about three miles away from the cemetery where he parked his jeep.  He’s not looking forward to the walk.

 

“Where else was I supposed to take you?” Derek asks and he’s doing that thing again, that thing where it’s like he’s moving in a thousand different directions, like he’s moving so fast Stiles eyes can’t catch him.

 

“I don’t know…how about home or my car or mother fucking Disney Land for Christ’s sake! How about anywhere, but this place? _Here_! Seriously? Derek, I need to get out of here, right the fuck now!” 

 

“Just wait a minute, okay?”  Derek is in front of him now, hands on his hips.  He’s wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt, his thick biceps on display and Stiles looks away.  There’s a flutter in his stomach and god damn it, not right now, this can’t be happening to him.  Derek is nobody to him.

 

“What do you want from me?  Want to reminisce about the old days? Oh yeah, the good old days!” Stiles says sarcastically cheerful.  His face twists into a sick caricature of a smile. “Let’s talk about it shall we?  Heya Derek old friend, old pal, remember that time your uncle made me give you a blowjob when I was in the third grade or hey, remember that time you fu-”

 

“Stop!” Derek roars.  His face is red, but he’s looking down at his feet like he’s too afraid to look him in the eyes and Stiles freezes.  He sits back on the couch, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

 

“It’s been eight years,” Stiles says. “I’m over this.”

 

"No you're not. I’m not.”

 

“Maybe _you’re_ not, but I am.  Don’t tell me how I feel okay buddy, because _I_ know my own goddamn feelings, okay?” 

 

Derek crouches in front of Stiles. He has his palm against Stiles’ cheek cradling his face, the touch surprisingly delicate.  There’s nothing about this adult Derek Hale that screams gentle, he’s all muscle and overpowering stares, but he’s being tender with Stiles as if he’s afraid that if he presses too hard Stiles will slip away.

 

Stiles can feel his heart start to beat faster and faster in his chest and he’s not sure if it’s from fear or anger or from the excited thrill coursing through his veins when his eyes meet Derek’s.

 

When Stiles Stilinski was eight he fell in love with Derek Hale. Eight year olds don’t really understand the concept of love and just what that means, but Stiles did. He felt the same way about Derek as he did about his dog, the one that ran away.  Mr. Jingles was an old mutt with patchy black and orange fur, but he was a loyal companion.  Stiles loved that dog something fierce and Stiles loved Derek, loved him something wildly uncomfortable and he didn’t understand any of it.  Or maybe it was only childhood infatuation, either way his heart swells and his chest aches when he thinks about it.

 

 

***

 

 

_Past_

When it’s all over Coach Pete is wiping the sticky stuff off of Stiles’ chest with a scratchy towel from the bathroom.  Derek doesn’t look at him, he keeps his back turned from them.  Coach is smiling at him, saying things like _you’re so lovely_ and _you are precious_ and then Coach Pete is stepping into his pants and slithering away into the bathroom, closing the door shut behind him.

 

Stiles tries to find his voice, but he can’t. He can only whisper, “Why are you crying?”

 

He knows he’s said it too low for Derek to hear him, but Derek turns around anyway, beautiful green eyes wet with tears.  Stiles reaches out one small hand, one fragile finger and slides a tear down Derek’s face.

 

“Stop,” he says and Derek does. 

 

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

“You didn’t though, honest,” Stiles says.  He’s sure he’s telling the truth, even if he is sore, down there between his legs.

 

Derek gets angry. “Why did you come here?” he grunts. “I told you not to come around! I told you about Uncle Peter!”

 

“My mmmmom,” Stiles stutters.  “She made me come so I could play better!  She said I had to and so did my dad!”

 

“That’s how he always gets them to come here you know. He says that they’re _special_ and all he has to do is practice with them.  That there’s the **potential** for greatness.  He tell you that too? Nobody ever stops him, nobody.  They think he’s so nice.”

 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks scooting down to the foot of the bed to sit beside him.

 

“You’re not the first kid, you know?  There’s been others.  You’re the first one with… _me_ , I mean, never before…” Derek says, looking away. “But Uncle Peter has lots of them.   Every weekend there’s a new boy here.  It’s disgusting.”

 

“Does Coach do…do the… _thing_ he did with us, with them?”  Stiles’ not sure what to call the _thing_ that’s just happened.  He doesn’t know the right words for them, but he knows it’s something that only grownups should do with each other.  And he feels cold and wrong inside, like somebody tore him a part, but didn’t fit the parts back in the right slots.

 

Derek’s laugh is anything but funny. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m gonna stop him though.  I’m gonna…I’m gonna find a way.”

 

Stiles takes a small breath and he goes for it, asks the one question that’s been on his mind since this whole thing started.

 

“How’d you burn your back?”

 

 

***

 

_Present_

When Derek was six he wanted to be a basketball player.  He’d always been pretty athletic, but basketball was the one and only sport that he wasn’t particularity good at.  He was tall enough for it.  His whole family was tall, long-legged country folk.  But he couldn’t dribble to save his life. 

 

Uncle Peter came to live with Derek’s family two days before Derek’s seventh birthday.  He didn’t know much about his dad’s younger brother, only that he lived in Florida and used to be a lawyer.  He also knew his mother couldn’t stand Peter and didn’t want him living in their house.  There was bad blood between them, something involving money Laura had told him.  Laura was twelve and she knew everything. 

 

The first time Uncle Peter touched him Derek couldn’t remember it happening. He just remember what happened afterwards.  He remembers the hands on his back, the burning sensation and his uncle’s terrifying growl in his ear.  He said _tell anyone and I’ll burn you up.   And after I burn you up, I’ll burn this whole house down around you and everyone in it_.

 

“I don’t blame you,” Stiles says.  He puts his hand over Derek’s, slides it away from his face.  He holds Derek’s hand in his.  “I don’t.”

 

And right then and there something breaks inside of Derek.  It’s quick like a twig snapping and he has Stiles in his arms pulling him as close as he can.  He’s whispering things that Stiles can’t fully comprehend, but he knows that they’re apologies and promises that Peter will pay for what he did to them, for how he broke them.

 

And then Stiles is kissing Derek’s mouth, but it’s chaste, almost like he’s afraid.  It’s not full of passion, but something sad and tender like the strings of a violin and the song that it plays.  He has his hands on Derek’s face, kissing him deeper, just a firm press of lips against lips, nothing more, but it means something, everything.

 

***

_Past_

  
Stiles’ mother keeps asking him questions about how he’s feeling. Stiles hasn’t eaten anything in two days and that’s not like her boy. He can barely go two hours without pounding down the steps demanding something to stuff in his mouth –anything except for vegetables, because _no thank you_.  But her baby boy isn’t eating and she knows that there is something wrong.  She can feel it in her gut.

 

“Baby boy, what’s wrong?”

 

Stiles ignores her, keeps playing his video game.  She keeps on talking, keeps asking and he ignores her.  He doesn’t want to tell her, he doesn’t want to see her get burns like Derek has.  Coach Pete said he’d burn her too if he told so he won’t tell.  He will **never** tell.

 

“Mom, would you freaking leave me alone!” he yells.  He throws the game controller down on the coffee table and runs out of the room.

 

“Hey! Hey, get back here!” she calls after him, already giving chase.  “What do you think you’re doing?  What’s gotten into you?”

 

“You’re driving me crazy! Leave me alone!” He slams his bedroom door and Ginger Stillinksi is at a loss.

 

When her husband gets home he finds her pacing back in forth in the kitchen.  Dinner has been sitting on the stove for hours, rack of lamb untouched.  Sheriff Stilinksi pulls her into an embrace and when she starts to cry he pulls her closer, kissing the top of her short dark hair.

 

“Oh honey what were we thinking putting him on that medication?” she sniffles.

 

***

 

_Present_

It’s Derek that pulls away first.

 

“You’re sixteen,” he says like that’s supposed to explain everything.  Stiles gets it though, he really does so he doesn’t push.  He’s embarrassed if anything, but Derek Hale is here and Stiles is old enough to know what those feelings were back then.

 

“Peter told me about what it was.  Why I could smell you, I mean.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, nodding his head.  “I knew you knew about us.  That’s how he got all the boys to stay quiet.  He said the wolf would get them if the fire didn’t.”

 

Stiles lets Derek’s words sink in.  Everything is falling into place, a latchkey sliding into a lock.

 

“You knew too then?  About you and me, about what he said we were?”

 

Derek sits beside Stiles, their knees touching, but he won’t look at him.

 

“I knew before I met you, that day at practice I mean.  I used to dream about you when I was a kid.  It was you and me and we were older, but I knew it was you.  And Peter knew it too.  That’s the things with werewolves, the older we get, the keener our senses and sometimes I think he could, like, read my thoughts.  He could smell you were mine before I understood it.  I just…I didn’t know what it was.  You were just so young! That’s what made him want you more.  The fact that you were supposed to be for me was just something extra for him.  Another way for him to get to me.”

 

Stiles inhales.  He exhales. He feels like breathing is just as good as talking, but it’s safer than using words.  He nods his head ushering Derek to continue.

 

“He didn’t want that for me.  He didn’t want what was supposed to be, to be.  Peter wanted me for himself, he wanted to keep me locked up and just with him.  He used to say that I was meant for him.  That sick fuck, I was nine and he was talking about running off with me, hiding me deep away from the world.  He said he used to wish he could keep me young, that I was growing up too fast, but he’d find a way to.  But he didn’t, did he?  Can’t stop aging, not even werewolves.”

 

Derek’s laugh is sad and he silent for a moment as he stares at Stiles, gripping his hand tight in a vice grip.

 

“We’re ruined now,” he says. “He ruined what we were and what we were supposed to become.”

 

***

 

_Past_

It happens again the next night.  Coach makes Derek touch him and Stiles feels the burn of shame because something inside of him, some small part he can’t quite reach yet, actually likes the way Derek’s hands feel on his belly.  Sometimes he’s soft and it’s not bad, not at all, but then Coach Pete gets angry and he pokes and pulls at Stiles like an animal. And that stings.

 

Scott comes home from Arizona in August and Stiles wants to tell him everything.  He wants to tell him about Coach Pete and how he can change his eyes and make fire with his hands, but then he knows that he’s not supposed to.  So Stiles doesn’t. 

 

Scott had a fun time at his grandma’s house.  She has a pool at her apartment complex and she tells Scott she’s too old to cook, even though she’s only fifty-two and every night they eat pizza.  Scott is excited for baseball camp, but Stiles tells him that it’s boring and that he shouldn’t go to it.  Scott, always easily confused, doesn’t understand what Stiles is really trying to say.  He’s really trying to say that _Coach is a bad man_ , that _he’s a monster with fire hands and sharp teeth_ and _he will try and eat you too_ , but all Stiles can do is tell Scott that he hates him.  All he can say is that Scott is so stupid just like all the kids in school say that he is and that he’s too dumb for baseball so he shouldn’t even play.

 

Stiles doesn’t mean to make Scott so upset that he has an asthma attack and he’s surprised when Scott punches him in the arm, screaming _I hate you_ and _you’re not my friend_ and _leave me alone_.

 

They don’t speak again until the end of the summer, four weeks after baseball camp is over and the Hale mansion has long burnt to the ground.

 

***

 

_Present_

Scott loves weed. Stiles loves it too, but not as much as Scott does.  Scott would get high everyday if he could, he says it helps him relax, calms his asthma down.  Stiles can relate, the weed helps him with his anxiety. When he’s smoking he’s not thinking of anything other than the cool earthy rich smoothness of his joint.

 

It’s not easy finding someone willing to sell the sheriff’s son and his best friend a dime bag, but someone does and this is some good shit. Purple Haze. Stiles closes his eyes as he inhales. He feels like if he tries hard enough he can draw in all of the perfumes of the forest.  He can taste pine in his lungs, the burn of the pot in his throat, the itch of root and moss on his tongue.  He can sink down into the cool earth, he bets.  He can probably disappear into the ground if he tries hard enough.

 

“What’s up with you, man?” Scott says, passes the joint.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Bullshit.  Tell me,” he urges.

 

Stiles laughs. “Tell me what you want, what you really, really want?” he sings.

 

“I’m serious,” Scott laughs.  He has such a stoner laugh that it makes Stiles laugh harder.  “You’re being all weird and shit.  What’s up with you bro? Lydia fucking with you again?”

 

“Nothing.  Just thinking about stuff, is all,” he says.  He passes the joint back to Scott and closes his eyes.  He’s going to find a way to sink into the soil, even if it kills him.

 

***

 

_Past_

Derek comes to his room the night the sirens scream into the night like banshees wailing for the fallen.  Stiles can hear the fire trucks racing away from town heading deeper and deeper toward the outskirts where the big houses are.  He can smell smoke thick in the air rich with soot and before he can get out of the bed, Derek is there, at his window, climbing through it.  He’s covered in ash and his glasses are gone.  He’s not wearing a shirt, only torn pajama bottoms and the burns on his back are gone.  The skin is new and clean.  Stiles wants to touch his back, feel how smooth it must be, but touching Derek currently feels wrong. 

 

“You’re going to be okay now,” Derek says.  He sits at the edge of the bed.  Stiles has race car sheets and posters of baseball and basketball players line the walls.  Derek pulls him in for a one armed hug, only for a brief moment before pulling away, putting some distance between them. “I’m leaving town.”

 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks.  He doesn’t want Derek to leave.  They’re not friends, not even close, but Stiles feels like he needs him.

 

“Far away,” he says.  He looks like he wants to cry.  “They’re all…my family.  They’re gone. I didn’t mean to, but Peter wouldn’t stop.  I had to, okay?” His eyes search Stiles, silently pleading for him to understand, but Stiles is too young to comprehend any of this.  All of these feelings eat away at him, gnawing at his bones, living as a twisted creature inside of his belly.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

“I have to go,” Derek whispers. “Goodbye.”

 

He turns to leave, but Stiles’ small hand wraps around Derek’s wrist.  He looks up, big brown eyes so confused.  What exactly are these feelings?  Why is it so hard to breathe?

 

“When are you coming back?”

 

Derek pauses. “I’m not,” he says. “I can’t.  Uncle Peter is gone now.”

 

And Derek Hale leaps out of the window, disappearing into the darkness.  Stiles won’t see him again for another eight years.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comfort part is coming, I promise.


	3. Beginnings End

 

 

_Present_

It’s the sound of his window being pushed open that wakes him. The cool breeze of the night air, the faint smell of autumn and _Derek_ perfumes the room.  Stiles opens his eyes and breathes it all in as he watches Derek climb gracelessly into his bedroom, stumbling hand over foot as if Derek’s not aware of the desk that’s in front of the window.  As if Derek hasn’t been climbing through Stiles’ bedroom window every night for a little over a week now, when it’s late and the world has gone calm. 

 

His eyes study Derek’s movements, observing every detail in the darkness that he can make out.  The stretch of old cracked leather as Derek drags his jacket off of his shoulders.  The inelegant kick of his mud-caked boots as he slips out of them, kicking them under Stiles’ bed. The rustle of denim as Derek steps out of his jeans and throws his t-shirt over his head, stripping down almost bare. 

 

All the while Stiles just stares at him, watching the shadows of the night wash over pale skin.  He pulls back the covers, a silent invitation for Derek to hurry up because it’s cold and Stiles can’t be bothered with going down the hall to adjust the thermostat.  He doesn’t want to risk waking up his dad.

 

“Hey,” Derek whispers as he climbs in.  “You okay?”  He asks and Stiles laughs to himself.  He’s any and everything _except_ okay and Derek knows this.  Sometimes it’s astounding just how awkward Derek really is.  Hilarious even, in a sad kind of way because Derek has spent the last eight years of his life doing god knows what and with whom.  Those things aren’t clear, but what is clear is that something inside of Derek hasn’t developed properly.  

 

He lacks social grace, can’t quite pick up on communal cues and clues. He doesn’t understand how to read body language, how to stop pushing when he’s going too far.  Whatever life Derek’s lived before he came back home hasn’t healed him. He won’t tell Stiles anything about his life, this other life he’s had to live away from Beacon Hills staying with _just people_ , as Derek calls them.  Not his family.  Derek has no family, not really. Does he even have friends? 

 

What he does know is the anger Derek has inside of him for this is the same anger that Stiles has.  He knows the hurt and fear inside of Derek for these emotions too settle in the pit of Stiles’ gut with every waking breath and restless night.  Day in and day out there’s been this heavy weight on Stiles' shoulders making him feel much older than his sixteen years should make him feel.  And this pisses him off, royally.  He wants control of his life.  He thought he had it, but he’s beginning to realize that he’s never had it.  Coach Pete took that away from him.

 

Stiles craves the feeling of freedom, the ache like a missing limb that still remembers what it was like to move.

 

“Yeah…just peachy,” he says sarcastically, but he’s settling under the covers, burrowing down into the warmth making sure not to get too close to Derek.

 

Stiles wants to touch him though.  He wants to wrap his arms around Derek, bury his face against Derek’s skin and stay there, _just stay_ , but he knows he can’t.  They have these silent rules, these lines that they can’t cross, that Derek refuses to acknowledge even exist.  In his mind, silence is better than having to come up with an answer.

 

But Stiles just wants things to get better.  He wants to _be_ better.

 

Maybe, one day, someday, things will be better.

 

Maybe once they kill Peter everything will be okay.

 

_* * *_

_Past_

The Hale House fire killed fifteen people: six adults and nine children.  Stiles had met them all.  He’d had conversations with each and every one of them, shared stories over dinner with these people.  And just like that, in one night, they were all gone, everyone except for Derek and Peter.

 

Derek had told Stiles that he’d killed Coach Pete, but he was wrong.  The paper said there was an electrical fire, some old wires had crossed and just one spark turned into an inferno.  Like a cockroach Peter Hale crawled out of the flames, his face and eighty percent of his body melted like tar on a driveway, the skin flaking off in blackened peels with only the aid of a machine to keep him breathing.  At least that’s what the stolen police report had said.

 

Stiles makes a copy of that report.  It’s almost fifty pages long and most of the terminology used are words he has to search on his computer because he doesn’t understand what _epidermal_ and _debridement_ mean.

 

What Peter went through was horrific.  The pain he must have felt; the pain all of the Hales had to have felt burning alive. It was too much for Stiles to take and he threw up all over the report. Dry heaving until nothing could come out.  

 

God help him because he was happy. He was glad that Peter suffered. He felt a joy rise up inside of him at the very thought of Coach Pete in pain.  And Stiles felt guilty for this.  He was ashamed by his delight, but he ignored that part of him that told him he should feel sympathy for this man.  Monsters don’t deserve sympathy.

 

 

  
_* * *_  

_Present_

Stiles parks his jeep in the back lot of Beacon Hills General hospital.  This is a small town hospital and generally the main parking lot, which has much easier access to the front of the building, is always empty.  Today it’s not though.  Today there are news vans parked in just about every vacant spot.

 

**Miracle: Burn Victim Wakes Up From A Ten Year Coma And Asks For A Steak**

  
The newspapers keep getting it wrong.  Peter was only in a coma for eight years.  Seven years, nine months to be exact.  Fucking idiots.

 

Derek and Stiles slip past the front desk without any trouble.  The nurses all know Stiles and just assume he’s visiting Melissa McCall, no doubt on another quest to convince her to allow Scott to accompany him doing lord knows what, getting into the kind of harmless trouble teenage boys seem to always find.  They do take note of the older boy who trails behind him; eyes stuck forward, midnight hair artfully tousled.  But he’s with Sheriff Stilinski’s boy and everyone knows that Stiles is about as harmful as a ladybug.

 

The burn unit is on the third floor.  With ease they take the stairs.  Stiles’ heart is beating in his chest.  He’s sure Derek can hear it, the thump-thump-thump, the racing of his pulse, the way he’s breathing as if it’s a chore to do so.  Stiles is terrified of what they’re about to do, but he knows he has to – _needs_ , to do this.  Coach Pete can’t live.  He’s a monster and Stiles and Derek are the good guys.  And at the end of every story it’s always the good guys’ job to kill the monster. 

 

This is just how these stories are supposed to end.

 

“Stiles,” Derek says and his voice comes out choked.  He places his hand on Stiles’ waist and stops him from opening the door, the door that leads to the hallway where Peter’s room is.

 

“I’m okay.” Stiles lies, his heart skipping a beat.

 

“You don’t have to be here.  I told you, it’s what _I_ have to do.  _You_ don’t have to be a part of this.”

 

“I am though,” Stiles says.  He steps away from Derek, leaning his back against the wall. “You know what he did to us.  I need to watch him die.  I need to know he’s gone.”

 

Derek takes a step forward and for a moment, just for a moment he lets his guard down.  He’s crowding Stiles up against the wall, chest to chest, back to white painted brick.  He has his hands against Stiles’ shirt, palming at the fabric, grasping as if Stiles is his anchor to the world.  He’s kissing him and Stiles is open and ready and he’s kissing back, but he keeps his arms at his sides as if he’s afraid that if he touches Derek, pulls him close like he longs to, Derek will shutdown, because that’s what broken things do: they stay broken if no one fixes them, kicked puppies flinching from gentle hands.

 

And Stiles is in no condition to fix anything, but god damn it he will try. So he reaches up, pulls Derek close, body flushed and kisses him like the world is ending.

 

 

_* * *_

_Past_

When Stiles is thirteen he tries to tell his father what Coach Pete did to him, but he can’t find the words over dinner.  As his father asks him about his day, because eighth grade is _so fucking_ interesting, Stiles can’t pull the words from his throat.  He doesn’t know why on this cold January evening he wants to tell his dad, but he does, so he tries.

 

“I saw this movie the other day,” he starts.  His father nods for him to continue. “It was pretty good.”

 

“What was it about?” Sheriff asks and this is Stiles’ chance.

 

“About this kid whose teacher did some really sick shit to her.”

 

Sheriff Stilinski's face scrunches up. “Oh Stiles,” he says.  “Why are you watching crap like that?”

 

And this is not the response that Stiles was expecting.  He’s actually not sure what he’s expecting, but it most definitely was not that.

 

“Well…” he pauses, pushes his roast beef around on his plate.  He’s not hungry anymore. “There was nothing else on….”

 

And that’s the end of that.

 

 

  _* * *_

_Present_

The first thing Stiles thinks when he sees Peter is that he’s a lot smaller than he remembers him being, with a slighter build.  Coach Pete used to seem so huge, like this behemoth of a man, like this beast, but lying in this hospital bed, face half melted away, hair thinned to sparse dark brown tufts on the side of his face, he looks so fragile.

 

“Hello nephew,” Peter says not bothering to take his eyes off of the television. Stiles hangs back near the door as Derek enters the room.  He can feel the rage Derek is feeling, his body hot with anger, and the nervous twist of anticipation making something in his chest throb.

 

“You know why we’re here.” Derek says and Peter smiles.

 

“I suppose you’re here to finish what you started?”

 

Derek growls and makes a move toward the bed, but Peter raises his arm as if he’s about to strike and Derek pauses mid-step.

 

“Think about what you’re about to do here nephew.  There are cameras everywhere.” He points above his head where a security camera is pointed toward them. “How would it look: you killing your dear, sweet beloved uncle?  Didn’t you hear: I’m a living, breathing phenomenon? Beacon Hills very own miracle!”

 

Stiles glares at Peter.   He thought he would feel…something different.  The anger is here, but the fear, the fear he’s held inside for so long, it’s just not here. Gone.  He’s not afraid of a man who’s as bent and hollowed out as the charred remains of the Hale mansion.

 

“Derek, let’s go.” Stiles states.

 

“Stiles…my we’ve grown up, haven’t we? It’s a shame.  I liked it better when you were small.  You had very… delicate places.  All soft, squishy parts.”  And there is joy on Peter’s face when he says this, a depraved ecstasy.

 

“Fuck you.” Stiles says softly, and then a little louder. “Piece of shit.”  He screams it. “FUCK YOU!”

 

And he can feel it, that rage, that water boiling over the pot, and he’s lunging at Peter.  He’s trying to get at him, trying to claw at him, but Derek is holding him back.  It’s easy, Derek is strong, but Stiles is pumped full of adrenaline fueled rage.  He feels like a rabid animal foaming at the mouth.

 

Stiles kicks and punches at Derek, digs his nails into Derek’s arms, elbows him until he’s free and he’s on Peter, he’s on him and he’s swinging, but Peter only laughs. 

 

He laughs as Stiles’ fist connects with his jaw, like it doesn’t hurt.   Peter is a wolf; this probably doesn’t hurt, but Stiles throws punches, left-right-left until his hands are sore.  Until Derek is pulling him away from the bed, until he’s pulling him out of the room, Peter’s cackle haunting them as Derek drags him down the hall and into the safety of the outside world.

 

Sunlight touches Stiles skin and he feels human again.

 

Later that night, in Stiles’ bedroom, when it’s dark and quiet again, when the cool October breeze blows through the open window, Derek, once again, slips underneath Stiles’ skin.  He touches him this time, reaches out a hand and laces his fingers through Stiles’.  He looks at Stiles as if he’s the be all and end all and Stiles…Stiles is kind of stupid for Derek.  He moves in close, as close as he can, laying chest to chest, slipping his leg between Derek’s and before he knows it, he’s asleep.

 

He feels like there’s something important between them, something worth building.

 

In the morning Stiles decides to do it.  He leaves Derek in his room with strict instructions to _keep the fuck quiet_ and he goes to his father’s bedroom.  It’s just before dawn and it’s a Saturday and Sheriff Stilinski knows something is wrong for he knows his son, and for Stiles to be up before ten on a Saturday, something terrible must have happened.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, abruptly sitting up. Stiles edges his way toward his father’s bed, sits beside him.  He looks anywhere, but at his dad, afraid that if he looks into his eyes, he’s going to do something awful like cry or run away.  Instead he bites at his thumb, chewing at the tip of his nail.

 

“I need to…I need to tell you something.”

 

“What?  Stiles you’re really making me worry here, kid.  What’s wrong?” His father looks so much older, older than Stiles remembered him looking the day before.  Where the hair was once rich and auburn, it’s now dull and grayed.  The lines around his eyes make him look sad and god damn it Stiles knows his about to break his father’s heart.

 

“I don’t know how to say this.  I just…I don’t want you to be mad at me, okay?”

 

In this room Sheriff Stilinski is just _dad_.  He pulls his son close to him. “There’s nothing you can do to me to make me mad at you.  Okay, yeah…you can piss me off,” he smiles and looks a little bit younger. “But whatever it is son, you’ll be okay.  **We** will be okay, I promise.  Tell me what’s going on?”

 

Stiles nods his head, but still doesn’t look at his father.  He focuses on a spot on the wall, a hole where a picture used to hang, a picture of blue flowers standing in a vase that Stiles broke when he was fifteen and stumbling around his dad’s room, looking for a bottle of whiskey to steal.

 

“When…when I was eight.  Something really bad happened.  Coach…Coach Pete…he…um….he did something…something not good. I wanted to,” he pauses.  Takes a breath. “ I wanted to tell you then, but I was scared to.  I’m not scared anymore.”

 

And right there Stiles breaks.  He falls against his father and he’s quiet.  He can feel his father’s arms pull him in tighter into a nervous hug and he’s asking question after question, so many questions that Stiles doesn’t want to answer, that Stiles can’t answer because he’s trying to breathe, god damn it he’s trying to breathe and the more he speaks, the easier it becomes.

 

 

_* * *_

_Future_

 

In the end the good guys don’t have to kill the monster.  It only takes one to tell and soon, others too tell their stories of the monster that lived in their closets.  When it’s all said and done, the file is too many pages to count and there’s dozens of boys, _dozens_ of boys who Coach Pete clawed at.  When confronted, all Coach Pete does is smile from his hospital bed and says:

 

_When the wolf wants to come out I let him play.  I can’t help it. He get’s hungry._

 


	4. Epilogue

  _Epilogue_

There’s the smell of rain in the air.  It’s thick and heavy, almost cloying with its promise of cleanliness.  Through the gloomy gray clouds of night, soon a storm will come to pass. 

 

This house has broken legs and is barely standing on its bones, but life is beginning to take shape here, breathing energy with the white paint on the walls, unsoiled and fresh.  Stiles' fingers feel raw as he grips the hammer, the heavy weight like a comfort as he bangs down the nails hanging up a portrait of a field of red wildflowers. 

 

In the kitchen, Derek is making coffee in only the way he knows how to.  The electricity is shoddy at best so when the microwave begins to hum, the lights flicker like the dying orange blaze of a flame.  He stirs in way too much milk and so much sugar that it’s almost nauseating, but this is how Stiles likes it, all syrupy and butchered.

 

In silence they drink, surveying the progress that has been made.  It’s taken almost six months, but the surface has been scratched.  The wooden floors glisten, still dark, wet and sticky in some places, dry in others.  The living room is empty save for the beat up brown futon that’s seen better days.  The house is not very big and it’s old, but there’s the knowledge that one day there will be _something_ here that makes this place feel like home. 

 

“What time does your dad get off?” Derek asks and he regrets speaking because whatever calm quiet they’ve had between them vanishes.

 

“He’s working a double and won’t be home until the morning.”

 

“Does that mean you can stay tonight?”

 

Stiles smiles softly in return as he takes another sip, yawning. “You already know the answer to that,” he says.

 

There’s no bed here, not yet.  There’s still so much work that needs to be done and furniture is the least of Derek’s concerns.  He’s just happy that he has his own piece of land, no matter how rundown it is, this place is his fresh start, his liberation and he will allow himself this redemption.

 

Stiles settles down on the futon stretching his legs out against its length, his feet dangling over the metal armrest.  He stares out of the window, watching as the gray clouds begin to swirl into black.  In the distance thunder roars.  The rain is coming down now in a flash of wetness that slides against the glass. 

 

He buries his hands deep in the pockets of his beat up hooded sweatshirt, eyes focused on the gloom.  He closes his eyes and tries to force himself to relax, to breathe in calmly and for the beats of his heart to steady.  It’s just that there’s something about the shadows that always leaves Stiles uneasy because he starts to _think_.  He starts to _remember_.

 

He wishes he could forget, but when it’s dark like this and the rest of the world is at rest he does _remember_.  His therapist tells him that this is natural and to lock the memories away again will only be a deterrent to his recovery.  In order to heal, he has to acknowledge what happened to him, but that doesn’t mean he has to live in those memories. Living in the past isn't healthy. 

 

He tells Stiles the story of how David took down Goliath with just one rock, how all it took was that one action to slay a beast, and that Stiles has already took down his beast with his admission. Stiles is a hero and his bravery is commendable.

 

He doesn’t feel like a hero though.  Mostly, he feels weak, angry and afraid.

 

Sometimes, when it gets too hard, when the memories still come in and Stiles just can’t will himself back into the present, there’s Derek, climbing through his bedroom window, shucking off that old, cracked black leather mess he calls a jacket.

 

And he’s here now, on the couch, filling up all of the empty spaces between them, pulling Stiles close to his body, whispering things and kissing promises into skin. 

 

They will have good things; they will have a good life.  These are things they are building.  It’s always darkest before the dawn so you’re just that much more thankful for the sunny radiance of morning.

 

And with the promise of a new day on the horizon, a calmness washes over Stiles.

 

He becomes settled.

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted a more wrapped up, happier ending hence, the extended epilogue. Thank you for reading!


End file.
